Читать книгу Windyridge - W. Riley - Страница 6

A fee of one penny, paid in advance, lent wings to the feet of the small boy who was pressed into my service, and before many minutes had passed Farmer Goodenough appeared upon the scene.

He shook hands with me, after Mother Hubbard had performed the ceremony of introduction, and I can feel the warmth of his greeting in my right hand yet. I shall be careful in future when I get to close grips with big, horny-handed Yorkshire farmers.

I almost regretted that I had felt it necessary to explain the situation to him when I heard his hearty and somewhat patronising laugh, but Mother Hubbard's previous treatment had emboldened me.

"Well, I do declare, Miss … " he hesitated and looked at me inquiringly, for my hostess had not mentioned my name.

"Grace Holden is my name, and I am unmarried," I said in reply.

"Oh!" he answered—only he pronounced it "Aw!"

"Well now, miss, you must excuse me, for I mostly speaks straight and no offence meant, and I hope none taken; but isn't this just a little bit daft-like? 'Marry in 'aste an' repent at leisure,' as t' Owd Book says. I'm thinkin' this'll be summat o' t' same sort. Hadn't you better sleep on it, think ye? It'll happen be a mucky day to-morrow, an' Windyridge 'll hev t' polish ta'en off it."

I have written this down with Mother Hubbard's assistance, and I required a little help from her at the time in the interpretation of it. But the farmer's candour pleased me.

"If the rent is more than I can afford to pay I shall return to London early to-morrow," I said; "but if it is within my means I shall certainly stay—at any rate for twelve months," I added guardedly.

"Now look you here, miss," returned the farmer; "I've got this cottage to let, an' if you take it for three months, or for six months, or for twelve months—for three months or for six months or for twelve months you'll hev it to pay for. Right's right, an' a bargain's a bargain all the world over. Frenchman, Scotchman or Yorkshireman, a bargain's a bargain. But nob'dy shall say 'at Reuben Goodenough took advantage of a woman. I won't let you this cottage, if you like it so as never, an' whether you can afford it or no, not until to-morrow I won't. An' I'll tell you why.

"You've just come an' seen Windyridge when all t' glory o' t' sunshine's on it, an' t' birds is singin' an' t' flowers is bloomin'; but it isn't allus like that. Not 'at I'm runnin' Windyridge down. I'm content here, but then I were born here, an' my work's here, an' t' missus an' t' youngsters were brought up here. But when you've slept on it you'll happen see different. Now you've no 'casion to speak"—as I was about to protest—"I've made up my mind, an' I'm as stupid as a mule when I set myself, an' there can be no harm done by waiting a toathree hours. Come, I'll show you what I can let you have for a ten-pun' note a year, if so be as you decide to take it at t' finish."

He unlocked the door and stepped aside to let us enter. The kitchen was almost a duplicate of Mother Hubbard's, but longer. There were the same oak rafters, the same oak sideboard, the same huge fireplace, the same cupboard. A horrible contrivance of cocoa-matting covered the floor, and a hearthrug, neatly folded, was conspicuous in one corner. A bedroom, of ample size for one woman of modest requirements, opened out of the kitchen, and I saw at a glance that I might have as cosy a home as Mother Hubbard herself. My mind was made up; but then so was Farmer Goodenough's, and as I looked at the square jaw and the thin lips I was convinced that this man with the good-natured face was not to be moved from his resolution.

"I shall take the cottage for twelve months," I said; "but I recognise the force of your objection, and I will not ask you to make out an agreement until to-morrow—to-morrow morning.

"But I claim to be a Yorkshirewoman, and so can be just a wee bit stupid myself, and you know the proverb says, 'When a woman says she will, she will, you may depend on 't.' Tell me, though, is not ten pounds per annum a very low rental, seeing that the cottage is furnished?"

"Low enough," he answered, "sadly too low; but it's as much as I can get. I charge fifteen shillin' a week in summer time, but then it never lets for more'n three months at t' outside, an' for t' rest o' t' year it 'ud go to rack an' ruin if I didn't put fires in it now an' then, an' get Mrs. 'Ubbard here to look after it. So I reckon it'll pay me as well to have someone in for a twelvemonth, even if I make no more money. But, miss"—he hesitated a moment, and thrust his hands deep into his trousers' pockets, whilst his eyes, as I thought, became tender and fatherly—"you must excuse me; I'm a deal older nor you, an' though I haven't knocked about t' world much, I've learned a thing or two i' my time, an' I have it on my mind to warn you. What t' Owd Book says is true: 'As you make your bed, so you must lie on 't,' an' it's uncommon hard an' lumpy at times. You know your own business best, an' I will say 'at I like t' look on you, an' it 'ud be a good thing for Mrs. 'Ubbard here to have you for a neighbour, but—think it well over, an' don't do nowt daft."

I suppose some people would not have liked it, but I did, and I told him so. And really it had the opposite effect from that he intended, for it showed me that I might have at least two friends in Windyridge, and that one of them would not be wanting in candour.

These preliminaries settled, the farmer handed the key to Mother Hubbard, so that it would be handy for me, as he explained, IF I should turn up again in the morning, and prepared to take his departure. Just as he reached the gate, however, he turned back.

"I should ha' said 'at you're welcome to t' use o' t' paddock. If so be as you care to keep a few hens there's pasture enough for 'em an' nob'dy hurt. An' if you want a greenhouse"—he laughed heartily—"why, here you are!"

He motioned that I should follow him, and I stepped through a gate in the wall into the hilly field which he called the paddock. There, firmly secured to the end of the house, was a structure of wood and glass which seemed out of all proportion to the size of the cottage.

"What in the world is this?" I exclaimed, but my landlord only laughed the louder.

"Now then, what d'ye think of that, eh? Kind o' Crystal Palace, that is. Strikes me I should ha' put this cottage in t' Airlee Mercury—'Desirable country residence with conservatory. Apply, Goodenough, Windyridge.' Them 'at takes t' cottage gets t' conservatory thrown in at t' same rent. It was put up by t' last tenant wi' my consent, an' he was as daft as——"

"As I am?" I suggested.

"Well, he proved hisself daft. He kep' hens i' one part an' flowers in t' other, but he neither fed t' hens nor t' flowers, bein' one o' them menseless creatures 'at gets their heads buried i' books, an' forgets their own meals, let alone t' meals o' them 'at can't sing out for 'em. T' upshot of it all was he left t' cottage an' made me a present of all t' bag o' tricks."

Then and there the idea of my studio had its birth. With a very little alteration I saw that I could easily adapt it to photographic purposes; and I was more determined than before—if that were possible—to take possession of my Yorkshire home. I know people will laugh and call me madder than ever. It does seem rather ridiculous to fit up a studio in a village of perhaps a hundred inhabitants, but my Inner Self urges it, and I am going to live by faith and not by sight. I am irrational, I know, but I just don't care. I have got a theory of life—not a very definite one just now, though it is getting clearer—and I am sure I am taking a right step, though I could not explain it if I wished, and I don't wish.

Mother Hubbard was tearful when I wished her good-night, and it was as an antidote to pessimism that I took the dear old soul into my arms and bade her stifle her tears and look confidently for my return. Farmer Goodenough's worldly wisdom had convinced her that the anticipations of a quarter-hour ago had been ill-founded. She had counted only too prematurely on my companionship, but the farmer's words had led her to see how unreasonable it was. She was stricken with remorse, too, at the selfishness of her conduct.

"You see, love," she explained, as we sought her cottage again and drew our chairs up to the fire—she had turned back her skirt lest the heat should scorch it—"I was just thinking about myself. I'm a lonely old woman, love, and it's only natural I should like the company of a nice, friendly young lady like yourself; but that's just selfishness. You must think over what Reuben has said, and don't do anything rash, but——"

"Mother Hubbard," I said, "you need not crumple your apron by turning it into a handkerchief, nor wet it by shedding useless tears. And I'm not a hair-brained young lady, fresh from school, but a sensible woman of thirty-five. Mark my word! At twelve o'clock to-morrow I shall be with you again, and I shall have lunch with you; and you'll oblige me by airing my bed for me, and getting things ship-shape, for to-morrow night I shall be your next-door neighbour."

I went back to Airlee by train from Fawkshill. I had noticed the railway as I came in the morning, and I felt that the tram would be too slow. As a matter of fact it took nearly as long and cost me more money. But my mind was full of Windyridge and I was oblivious to everything else. When I reached the coffee-room of the hotel I was calmer, for somehow the old familiar sights and sounds of the city threw my cottage into the background, and I was able to view the situation dispassionately.

Had I been a fool? Was not Farmer Goodenough right, after all; and had not his sound common sense saved me from committing myself to a rash and quixotic adventure?

"Grace Holden," I said, "you have got to face this question, and not make an ass of yourself. Weigh up the pros and cons. Get pencil and paper and make your calculations and strike your balance, and don't for goodness' sake be emotional."

Then my Inner Self said with great distinctness, "Grace Holden, the heather has called you! Listen to it!" And I went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

My first sensation on awaking was one of exhilaration. Not a single cloud of doubt or apprehension appeared upon the sky of my hopes; on the contrary, it was rosy bright with the promise of success. I like to trust my intuitions, for it seems to me you treat them unfairly and do not give them a chance of developing upon really strong lines if you don't do so. Intuitions are bound to become weak and flabby if you are always coddling them and hesitating whether to let them feel their feet. An intuition that comes to you deprecatingly, and hints that it does not expect to be trusted, is a useless thing that is dying of starvation. My intuitions are healthy and reliable because I believe in them and treat them as advisers, and am becomingly deferential. It's nice to feel that your Inner Self likes you too well to lead you astray.

I wrote several letters and chuckled to myself when I thought of the effect they would produce in certain quarters. I am just a nonentity, of course, in the city of London, and nobody outside of it ever heard of me so far as I know, and I am my own mistress, without a relative of any kind to lay a restraining hand upon my actions; yet there are just two or three people who will be interested in this new phase of madness.

I can see Madam Rusty adjust her pince-nez and scan the postmark carefully before unfolding my note. And I dare bet anything that the glasses will fly the full length of the chain when she finds she has to pack up my belongings and despatch them to Windyridge. I always carry my cheque book with me in case of emergencies, so I have sent her a blank cheque "under five pounds" to cover her charges. I guess there won't be much change out of that when madam has filled it in.

And Rose! I wonder what Rose will say. I think she will be rather sorry, but she has many other friends and will soon console herself. And, after all, she did say I was "swanky"; but I daresay I shall ask her down some day, and I am sure she will attend to the little matters I have mentioned.

I paid my bill, and by ten o'clock was once more in the Fawkshill car; but I went inside this time, and closed my eyes and dreamed dreams. I got rid of the factory chimneys that way.

It was approaching twelve when I walked up the garden path to my new abode, and heard the joyful "Yes, love!" of my new mother. She could not forbear giving me one peep into my own cottage as we passed the door. A cheerful fire was blazing in the grate, the rug was in its place, the mattress and all its belongings were heaped around the hearth, and the clock upon the wall was ticking away in homeliest fashion and preparing to strike the noontide hour. There was not a speck of dust anywhere. Evidently Mother Hubbard had been up early and had worked with a will, and I was touched by this evidence of her faith, and glad that I had proved worthy of it.

"But what will Farmer Goodenough say?" I asked jocularly, as we discussed the appetising ham and eggs which she had prepared in her own kitchen.

"Reuben? Oh, I take no notice of him, love. He called out as he passed, whilst I was in the garden this morning, that I was to remember that he had not yet let you the house, and that we might never see your face again; but I said, 'For shame! Reuben Goodenough,' though I will admit I was glad to see you, love. And now we'll just go in together and get everything made tidy. Bless you! I'm glad you've come. I think the Lord must have sent you to cheer a lonely old woman."